‘Right. Always. That was the message. Just that one word.’
‘And that meant something to you?’
Verlaine leaned back in his chair. He took another cigarette from the packet on the table and lit it. ‘Rumor has it that you’re from New Orleans originally.’
‘Word gets around fast.’
‘However big New Orleans might appear to be it ain’t ever big enough to lose a secret inside.’
‘So?’
‘So you’re from New Orleans, and anyone from New Orleans must have run by the Ferauds.’
‘Always Feraud,’ said Hartmann.
‘That’s the man. Daddy Always. That’s what I figured the message meant.’
‘You follow it up?’
‘You mean did I go talk to him? Sure I did.’
‘And what did he have to say for himself?’
‘He said that I had a problem, a serious problem. He said there was nothing he could do to help me.’
‘Anything else?’ Hartmann asked.
‘A little. He said that the man I was looking for didn’t come from here, that he was once one of us, but not now, not for many years. He said that he came from the outside, and that he would bring with him something that was big enough to swallow us all. That was the exact phrase he used, that it would swallow us all.’
Hartmann didn’t speak. The tension in the room was tangible.
‘He told me to walk away. He told me that if I believed in God then I should pray that this killing had served its purpose.’ Verlaine shook his head and sighed. ‘Always Feraud told me that this was not something I should go looking for.’
‘And this you didn’t report to Luckman or Gabillard?’
Verlaine shook his head. ‘What the hell purpose would it have served?’
Hartmann shook his head resignedly. He knew exactly what might have gone down. Luckman and Gabillard would have instigated a raid on Feraud’s place, and if they had somehow avoided a stand-off and gotten to see Feraud himself, then they would have come away none the wiser than when they went in.
There was nothing in the world that would have prompted Feraud to give the FBI anything at all.
‘He told you to walk away from this,’ Hartmann reiterated.
‘Yes. Told me to walk away. Told me not to go looking. Also told me not to go to his place again, and not to ask anything of him regarding it. He said it wasn’t something he was part of, nor was it something he wished to become involved in.’
‘And he said nothing about Catherine Ducane? Mentioned nothing about the kidnapping?’
The detective shook his head. ‘He didn’t say anything, no, but that doesn’t mean he knew nothing about it, right? He’s familiar with the way this works. He answers only what he’s asked. He doesn’t talk about anything without it being brought up by someone else first.’
‘And that was the end of your meeting with Feraud?’
Verlaine nodded. ‘Sure was. You don’t go outstaying your welcome down there, you know that.’
‘So what do you make of it?’ Hartmann asked.
‘Out of school?’
‘Yes, out of school.’
‘Whoever the hell it was got the girl, right?’
‘Yes, Catherine Ducane.’
‘And right now she’s either been hidden somewhere or she’s dead?’
Hartmann nodded agreement.
‘I figure it has to be something personal between the kidnapper and Charles Ducane. Man like that doesn’t get to be a man like that unless he’s walked alongside a few dangerous people on the way. If it wasn’t personal there would have been a ransom demand by now, or maybe a call to let us know where we could find her body.’
‘You know anything specific about Ducane?’ Hartmann asked.
Verlaine shook his head. ‘No more than anyone else would know who lives in New Orleans and gets on the rumor lines.’
Hartmann reflected on this for a moment. He’d heard his own things about Ducane but wanted to hear it from someone else’s point of view. ‘Such as?’
‘The gambling licenses, the kickbacks, the campaign slush funds, all the shit that goes with the territory. A governor doesn’t get to be a governor without greasing some palms and silencing some tongues, you know? I’ve never followed anything up on him, never had the need to, nor the interest for that matter, but evidently he’s gotten someone mightily pissed along the way and now the shit has hit the fan.’
‘Evidently,’ Hartmann said.
‘So you need anything else from me?’ Verlaine asked.
Hartmann shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘And none of this goes any further, right?’
Hartmann shrugged. ‘Why would that matter to you?’
Verlaine smiled wryly. ‘I got parents here in Orleans, and then I got the Feds and whoever the fuck else on the other. You drag me into this any further and you endanger either my professional reputation or my life. You know the deal, Mr Hartmann.’
‘I do, and no, this won’t go any further—’
A sound outside. The sudden hubbub of voices. Hartmann rose from the desk as someone knocked sharply on the door and opened it.
Stanley Schaeffer stood there, his face flushed, his eyes wide. ‘You got someone here,’ he said, urgency in his tone.
Hartmann frowned. ‘I got someone?’
‘Your caller, we think it’s your caller.’
Verlaine looked at Hartmann. His face was grave.
Hartmann came out from behind the desk and followed Schaeffer at a near-run.
EIGHT
There were three of them, and they all looked the same, and they all wore the same expression of confusion, anxiety, the tension of the moment, and all three of them had their hands on their guns, but had not drawn them, for they were uncertain of what they were dealing with. And one of the three agents was Sheldon Ross, and when he turned and saw Hartmann burst through the door at the far end of the entrance foyer there was a momentary yet very evident flicker of relief in his eyes.
For a handful of seconds, couldn’t have been more than six or seven, everyone stood silent and immobile. Three agents surrounded the man, and on the other side of the foyer Hartmann stood next to Schaeffer, and when Hartmann looked at Schaeffer there was something about the way he looked that communicated the same sense of disbelief as Hartmann himself felt.
The man who had walked into the foyer of the FBI office had to have been at least sixty or sixty-five. He was dressed immaculately: an overcoat, a three-piece suit, white shirt, a deep burgundy tie, patent leather shoes, leather gloves, a black cashmere scarf around his neck. His face was a network of symmetrical lines – creases and wrinkles and crow’s feet like origami unwrapped – and beneath his heavy-set brows his eyes were the most piercing green – emerald almost – intense, somehow possessed.
The old man broke the silence, and the words that came from his lips were spoken with the same unmistakable dialectic tones that Hartmann had listened to on the phone, and yet again many times on the tapes they had made.
‘Mr Hartmann,’ the man said. ‘And Mr Schaeffer.’ He paused and smiled, and then he looked at the three younger agents facing him and said, ‘Gentlemen, please don’t feel any necessity to draw your guns. I am here of my own volition, and I assure you I am quite unarmed.’
Hartmann felt his heart thudding in his chest. His throat was tight, as if someone had gripped it and was damned if they were going to let go.
The man took one step forward, and the three agents – armed though they were – each simultaneously took one step back.
‘My name,’ the man said, ‘is Ernesto Perez.’ He smiled, a broad and genuine smile. ‘And I have come to talk about the girl.’
It was Schaeffer who moved first, and as he moved so did two others beside him. Who started shouting was uncertain in Hartmann’s mind, but there was no doubt as to the contagious effect a single raised voice had on the proceedings. Schaeffer pushed past the agents in front
of him, and before Hartmann could react he was holding a gun, a gun that he aimed directly between Perez’s eyes.
‘On the floor!’ Schaeffer was commanding.
Pandemonium broke out instantly. It seemed that there were twice as many people in the foyer all of a sudden. Schaeffer was at the head of them, and at one point he turned and looked at Hartmann, his face white, his eyes wide, and it seemed that all the frustration and pressure he’d been feeling since this began were encapsulated within that split-second glance.
Perez looked back at Schaeffer implacably. He raised his right hand slowly, then his left; he too looked at Hartmann, in his eyes a sense of resigned disbelief that such behavior was necessary.
‘Down!’ Schaeffer commanded once more, and then there were three or four of them, guns drawn and leveled, and Perez went slowly to his knees.
‘Hands behind your head! Get your hands behind your fucking head!’
Hartmann took a step backwards and looked down at the floor. For some reason he felt awkward, almost embarrassed, and when he looked up he saw Perez was staring right back at him.
Hartmann tried to look away but he could not. He felt transfixed, pinned to the spot, and when Ross went forward and handcuffed Perez it seemed that the whole world slowed down to ensure that this moment lasted forever. Hartmann sensed the breathless tension in those present, and he was aware of the tremendous pressure such a confrontation would create. He closed his eyes for a second; he prayed with everything he possessed that a sudden movement wouldn’t prompt a reaction, an unsteady hand, a moment’s nervousness, a dead kidnapper . . .
After a moment everything went quiet.
Perez, his upturned face visible to all, smiled at Stanley Schaeffer.
‘I have come of my own accord, Agent Schaeffer,’ he said quietly.
The two agents to Schaeffer’s right were visibly shaken and on-edge. Hartmann prayed that one of them wouldn’t pull the trigger in a moment of agitation and uncertainty.
‘I don’t believe that this is altogether necessary,’ Perez went on. His voice was steady, as were his hands, his eyes, everything about him. Kneeling there on the floor of the foyer he appeared just as calm as when Hartmann had first seen him.
‘This is a good suit,’ Perez said, and he smiled with his eyes. ‘A very good suit, and it is such a shame to dirty it by kneeling here on the floor.’
Schaeffer turned and looked at Hartmann.
Hartmann didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. He thought of John Verlaine, reminded that he had left him in the back office. He wondered where Verlaine was, if he had somehow managed to leave the building amidst the confusion generated by Perez’s arrival.
Perez shook his head. ‘It seems that we have reached an impasse. I remain here on the floor and we accomplish nothing at all. I stand up, you release these quite unnecessary handcuffs, and I shall tell you what it is you have been waiting for.’
Again Schaeffer turned and looked at Hartmann. Hartmann did not know what was expected of him; here he possessed no authority at all. Schaeffer was in charge of the investigation and was the one who’d believed it necessary to put Perez on his knees and handcuff him.
‘You stand slowly,’ Schaeffer said. His voice broke mid-sentence and he repeated himself. There was the slightest waver in his tone, as if he was unsettled by this man even though he was now cuffed and almost prostrate.
Perez nodded but did not speak. He rose slowly to his feet, and even as he did so the men behind him, the men who had been so quick to draw and aim their guns, stepped back and looked awkward. One of them lowered his gun and the others quickly followed suit.
Hartmann watched, slightly amazed at how Perez seemed to have effortlessly taken control of the situation with barely a word.
Perez stood facing Schaeffer with his hands behind his head. He merely nodded and Schaeffer motioned for Ross to unlock the cuffs. Perez lowered his hands and massaged each wrist in turn. He nodded at Schaeffer and smiled courteously.
Schaeffer turned and nodded at Hartmann.
Hartmann paused for a second, and then he came forward with his heart thundering in his chest and his throat tight like a tourniquet.
Later, because thoughts that came after the fact always seemed more incisive and relevant than those born in the moment, Ray Hartmann would recall the tension of that moment, the way everything had unfolded, the way the old man had come forward to greet him, how the collective body of agents had withdrawn, and how – when he opened his mouth and spoke – it seemed that everything that had gone before, everything that had brought them to that point, seemed so insignificant. This man, calling himself Ernesto Perez, had appeared without fanfare, without armed escorts, without blaring sirens and flashing cherry-bars; had appeared in the foyer of the Bureau’s office in New Orleans, perhaps the FBI’s most wanted man, coming of his own accord, coming without demand or warrant. He had appeared quietly and politely, and yet somehow commanded the attention of all who were there with his unmistakable charisma and presence.
Ernesto Perez, whoever he might have been, had arrived before them, and for the moments it took for everyone to register what he was saying, it seemed the world had stopped.
Hartmann spoke first; opened his mouth and said, ‘Mr Perez . . . thank you for coming.’
Perez smiled. He stepped back and gave a courteous bow of his head. He slowly removed his overcoat, his scarf also, and then – without seeming in the least presumptuous – handed them to Sheldon Ross. Ross turned and glanced at Hartmann, Hartmann nodded, and Ross took the scarf and gloves.
Perez took another step forward.
Schaeffer raised his hand. ‘Stop right there,’ he said.
Perez looked at Hartmann, his expression one of slight bemusement.
‘It’s okay,’ Hartmann said. He stepped ahead of Schaeffer, crossed the room to where Perez stood, and reached out his hand.
Perez took it, and for a moment the two of them stood there immobile.
‘Seems we have a great deal to discuss, Mr Perez,’ Hartmann said.
Perez smiled. ‘It seems we do, Mr Hartmann.’
There was a moment’s silence, and as Hartmann looked at the old man he saw nothing more than the reason he might once again lose his family. Had it not been for this man he would still be in New York, nothing to concern him but making it to Tompkins Square Park on time . . .
‘I have a proposition,’ Ernesto Perez stated matter-of-factly.
Hartmann’s train of thought was derailed.
Perez smiled. He seemed almost effortlessly in command of the situation. ‘But perhaps it is not so much a proposition as a presentation of incontrovertible fact. I have the girl. I have her somewhere safe. I can guarantee that no matter how many federal agents you bring down here you will never find her.’
From the inside pocket of his jacket he withdrew a single color photograph. Catherine Ducane – strained, exhausted-looking, standing against a blank and featureless wall, in her hands a copy of the New Orleans Herald from the previous day. The Herald meant nothing; the paper could be bought all across Louisiana and in some of the adjoining states as well.
Hartmann stood silent, watching every move the man made, his body language, the way his turn of phrase emphasized certain points. Hartmann knew two things from watching him: that there was indeed no possibility of finding Catherine Ducane without this man’s direction, and secondly, perhaps more importantly, that he was in no way afraid. He had either done this before, or was free of any concern regarding his own welfare.
Hartmann sensed Schaeffer beside him. He sensed his thoughts, his feelings, the kaleidoscope of emotions that would be running through him, the anxiety he would be feeling about how to explain this situation to his superiors in Washington. All these things, and underlying them the conviction that a man such as Schaeffer would feel: that Ernesto Perez was beneath him, that Ernesto Perez was the sort who was always better dead.
Hartmann willed Schaeffer to stay silent, to say a
nd do nothing. Perez was used to being in control, and he would merely rise to any provocation by making their predicament all the more dangerous.
‘My terms, if terms is an appropriate description, are simple, if perhaps a little peculiar,’ Perez continued. He seemed relaxed, unhurried. ‘I have some things to say, a great many things, and thus my request that Mr Hartmann be present.’
Hartmann looked up at the sound of his name.
Perez smiled, and once again nodded his head. ‘Perhaps I feel I owe you something, Mr Hartmann.’
Hartmann frowned. ‘Owe me?’
‘Indeed. We have crossed paths before, indirectly, never face-to-face, but in some small way our lives connected some little while ago.’
Hartmann shook his head. There was nothing about the man that struck a chord with him.
Perez smiled. His eyes were dark and intense. He seemed to be speaking of something for which he held fond memories.
Hartmann clenched his fists. He bit his tongue. He said nothing.
Perez lowered his head, and then looked up once more and scanned the faces of the men looking back at him. ‘I think it was Pinochet perhaps, yes it was Pinochet who said that sometimes democracy must be bathed in blood.’
Perez shook his head, and turned once more to Hartmann. ‘But that is past,’ he said, ‘and we must talk of the present. As I said, I feel that there is a small matter for which I owe you a debt, and thus I have asked for you to be here. There are a good many things of which I wish to speak, and Mr Hartmann will be present to hear them. Once I am done, once I have said all I wish to say, then I will tell you where you can find the girl and she can be returned to her father. Is that understood?’
There was silence, perhaps for no more than ten or fifteen seconds, but those seconds drew out infinitely, and it seemed that everyone present was waiting for another to speak.
Finally it was Hartmann. ‘Do we have a choice?’ he asked.
Perez shook his head slowly and smiled. ‘If the life of Catherine Ducane carries any importance at all then no, Mr Hartmann, you do not have a choice.’
‘And if we concur with your wishes, if we give you the time to say what you have to say, then what guarantee can you give us that Catherine Ducane will be found alive?’
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